Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6): Box Set Collection

by Erica Ridley

  But life had a way of dropping marquesses at the dinner table.

  She pressed her lips together. Damn her traitorous heart for skipping a beat when he’d asked to speak with her alone. She shouldn’t be anywhere near a man like that. She definitely shouldn’t be wondering how he had been, what he was doing now, if she would ever see him again.

  He was poison. An addiction. But she was through. No matter how pretty his words, he had shown his true colors long ago. She would not fall for the magic of his embrace anew. There was too much at stake.

  She straightened her shoulders, determined to spare Christina pain at any cost. One could not undo the past, but Faith had dedicated the last ten years to making the best she could of their present.

  Faith wanted Christina to have what she had not. To grow up and fall in love with a man who cherished and appreciated her. To be free to marry without any hint of scandal that would stop her from living the best life possible.

  “After such a busy day, I believe you deserve a treat,” Faith said as she accepted the two slim volumes. “How about a third book tonight?”

  Christina’s only reply was a high-pitched squeal before she disappeared between the stacks in a whirl of ribbons and ringlets and lace.

  Faith hugged the two children’s books to her chest and smiled affectionately. She considered herself a logical person, possessed of a practical mind, not a creative one. Yet she was a dreamer after all. She could not help but hope for new opportunities for the girls at her school, for the daughter she protected at all costs, and sometimes, even for herself.

  The library door swung back open and her ruddy-cheeked parents barreled into the room.

  “There she is!” Mother pointed at Christina dashing between two tall stacks of books, then turned to Faith. “Did she tell you about the little ducklings?”

  “Of course she did,” Faith said with a grin.

  Christina loved her grandparents as much as they loved their grandchild. They doted on her like she was the princess in a fairy story, and in turn Christina believed her grandparents to be the equal of any king and queen.

  Faith supposed that was the power of money. Her parents hadn’t been able to shower her with toys and attention when she’d been Christina’s age. She had not lived a sheltered childhood, because her parents had not been wealthy enough to shelter her. She had been elbowed, shoved aside, trod upon. Sometimes because she was invisible to the others. Sometimes because she was not invisible enough.

  Her fingers tightened about the books clutched against her chest. She would never let her daughter’s wrist be bruised by a stranger’s careless yank. A shiver slid down Faith’s spine from all the old memories. That was then. She was no longer invisible. Christina would never be.

  She turned to her parents. “Have you given thought to the list of schools I researched?”

  “Oh, darling.” Mother exchanged a telling glance with Father. “We simply haven’t had time.”

  They had time. They had nothing but time. Time and money. What they didn’t have was any desire to let Christina out of their sight, even in the name of education.

  As much as Faith understood their reluctance, sometimes letting go was the best way to give more. Christina deserved a good school, to have good friends. Real friends. She deserved to have the kind of life that little girls like Faith had always dreamed of.

  She intended to ensure it happened. Her only goal was to keep Christina healthy and happy now and in the future. She leaned forward. “If Chris’s schooling is not a priority at this moment,” Faith said smoothly, “perhaps now is the perfect time to invest a small sum into my boarding school.”

  The amount of money her mother spent on a single gown would transform the girls’ pitiful library into a haven for the rest of their school years. Her parents’ pocketbooks wouldn’t even register the donation. But the lives of her students would be forever enriched.

  “I think it’s time you reenter society,” Mother began, ignoring Faith’s request.

  “I was never in society,” Faith reminded her. “You tried your hardest, but I was never worthy in their eyes. I shall stay right where I am, thank you.”

  “That was back then,” her father put in. “Our factories were new, our money was new, our situation was new. It’s a different world than it was ten years ago.”

  “Is it?” Faith hoped so, for Christina’s sake.

  Nonetheless, she had taken care when crafting the fictional circumstances of Christina’s birth. Chris had not been born to a family of social-climbing trade-mongers with bad manners and good intentions, but to a mysterious wealthy cousin twice or thrice removed whose family had never worked a day in their lives. The untimely demise of Christina’s very genteel birthparents was a dreadful tragedy, but since the distant Digby relatives had been visiting nearby, of course they had done their Christian duty and agreed to raise the orphaned newborn as their own.

  A story like that was hard to disprove. Tragic enough not to invite nosy questions. Faith simply wished for Christina to be accepted for who she was: a kind, wonderful, curious, bighearted little girl.

  “I’ve increased your dowry,” Father said, tensing as if he expected this news to incite a war.

  Faith would not disappoint him. “I told you to invest that money in my school. I will not be needing it.”

  “And I told you,” Mother put in, “that instead of going to work in a rookery, you should be outfitting yourself with the very best modistes in the whole of London. The Season is underway. You did make one friend amongst the ton. If you attend the Grenville routs in the right gown, you might even catch the eye of a duke or an earl.”

  “I decline.” Faith crossed her arms. That was how she had ended up ruined and alone ten years ago. She would not be making that mistake again.

  “Doesn’t Chris deserve an…uncle?” Mother insisted. “Lord knows you deserve a husband.”

  “A good one,” Father put in quickly. “A man with a title, full coffers, and the bollocks to do what’s right.”

  Faith forced a brittle smile to hide her clenched teeth. Not because her parents were wrong. But because they were right.

  Yet finding a good man with the stones to do what was right was not that easy. Faith was no more likely to scoop up an errant duke today than she was ten or twelve years ago. Less likely, even. For one, she was far too old. For two, well, the only eligible bachelor she had come across in all that time was… The same one who had ruined her the first time.

  Her resolve hardened. Hawkridge hadn’t been part of her life for over a decade. She would not change that now. Especially not to benefit him.

  She knew what he wanted in a wife. Everybody knew. Back then he had been looking for an evening’s distraction. Now he was looking for money.

  Well, he could keep looking. Her family’s money was for family, not selfish blackguards. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need any man. Spinsterhood was far preferable to how she’d suffered in her failed attempts to fit in with the fashionable set. She wasn’t one of them. She didn’t need to be. ’Twas better the devil one knew, and what Faith knew was being a good mother.

  Er, aunt.

  Once was more than enough.

  She gazed at her daughter, whose pert little nose had already disappeared into a book.

  Faith was neither proud nor embarrassed of her place in society. Or lack thereof. She loved her friends, her family, her career. She didn’t want to lose any of it. She was finally happy. How could anyone be anything less with a wonderful child such as Christina in her life?

  “Let’s go upstairs to read!” Christina latched onto Faith’s elbow and dragged her from the library toward the nursery.

  “Only if you help,” Faith replied as she did every night.

  What had begun as marathon sessions of Faith reading bedtime stories to her child had transformed into blissful evenings of Christina snuggled tight to her chest, reading aloud at a level quite advanced for her young age.

 
; Faith was so proud of her daughter. Christina deserved the best education they could find. Loving friends, a happy childhood, every possible advantage.

  Which could only happen if things continued exactly as they currently stood. Under no circumstances could she allow any hint of gossip that Christina was a by-blow.

  Faith knew firsthand how cruel society could be. The fashionable set wouldn’t accept Faith because her family was in trade. Their “betters” would positively rip apart an innocent bastard child.

  Her child.

  Chapter 4

  Bond Street. The fashionable heart of London. Hawk stood at the edge of the bustling district and stepped forward into its midst.

  Early spring sunlight glistened off of store windows. Street sweepers cleared the way for bright-cheeked ladies in sumptuous gowns. Metal wheels and the smart clop of hooves met on wet cobblestone. Fancy carriages, elegant clothes, French perfumes…

  If he allowed himself to dream, Hawk could almost let himself believe he was still a part of this world.

  Now, only his title belonged.

  He straightened his worn gloves and shoved them out of sight behind his back. He walked with his head held high, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As if he were here to actually shop, rather than slowly pay off a long overdue account created by his father.

  Not that Hawk was completely innocent of all such expenditures. One must clothe oneself, although a new jacket or a fresh pair of trousers every few years wasn’t the sort of purchase that would impress anyone strolling on Bond Street.

  He kept his eyes forward, trained on no one in particular. He needed to let the tailor know the account was late but not forgotten. Hawk would pay as much as he could as soon as he could—sooner, if he could talk a few more investors into hurrying the port’s development along.

  He exchanged smiles and polite words with everyone who tossed him a greeting. Most were too intent on their own shopping expeditions to notice Lord Hawkridge’s hands were as empty as his pockets.

  That suited him perfectly. Hawk tortured himself over his financial difficulties enough quite on his own, thank you very much. He dreaded becoming town gossip. Another empty title among the relentlessly mocked ton caricatures.

  At least it had not yet come to that.

  Just as he reached the door to the tailor, it swung open from the inside and a familiar, well-dressed gentleman strolled out.

  Hawk straightened involuntarily, although the last person on this earth he was likely to bamboozle was Mr. Grenville. He would know at a glance that Hawk wasn’t on Bond Street for an idle bout of shopping.

  Yet he didn’t hide his face. Normally, London’s most enigmatic secret-keeper would be the last person Hawk wish to run into, but today it just so happened that he possessed a few secrets Hawk would do anything to unlock.

  Mr. Grenville was Dahlia’s brother. Dahlia was Hawk’s sister-in-law… and the bosom friend and business partner of Hawk’s former paramour Miss Faith Digby.

  Grenville would know everything there was to know.

  If Hawk wished to learn more about Faith, he could not ask for a richer source. Grenville’s fame came not just from the wealth of his knowledge but his legendary discretion. Far more important men than Hawk paid handsomely to keep their secrets well out of the public eye.

  Not that Mr. Grenville was anything so common as a blackmailer. Men of power sought him out, confided their worst indiscretions, so that he could make all potential problems disappear. Hawk had no idea how Grenville had stumbled into such a profession, if indeed it could be considered as such, but he was a nonpareil.

  If anyone in all of England could tell Hawk how Faith was doing, what she was doing, how much happier she was without the penniless Lord Hawkridge in her life, Mr. Grenville would be that man. There is not a single secret all of London that Mr. Grenville was not privy to. The trick would be getting him to reveal even a tiny morsel.

  “Grenville,” Hawk exclaimed with a bright smile he instantly regretted.

  His exclamation was too exclaim-y, his ingratiating smile a bit too desperate. Grenville would guess in an instant why Hawk was so delighted to see him.

  “Hawkridge,” Mr. Grenville said smoothly, his quick, intelligent gaze displaying neither suspiciousness nor curiosity. He did not inquire whether Hawk was in the fashionable quarter to outfit himself in the latest mode, or to pay a bill.

  Why would he? They both knew what Hawk was about. And now the conversational ball was back in his hands.

  “I dined with your sister yesterday,” Hawk said, as casually as he could manage.

  Mr. Grenville was no doubt far more acquainted with the details of the encounter than Hawk. Gossip had it, the very walls confided to Grenville.

  A faint smile curved his lips. “I trust Dahlia was well.”

  “She appears to be thriving at her boarding school,” Hawk replied, thrilled at how quickly the conversation had given him the perfect foothold. “Miss Faith Digby was also there. They seem to be getting on well with their school.”

  “Mmm,” Mr. Grenville murmured, his tone noncommittal.

  The moment stretched on awkwardly.

  Did Grenville know about Hawk’s past involvement with Faith? Did he suspect Hawk had stolen something far more valuable than a kiss? But if he knew about Faith and Hawkridge, why would Grenville never have mentioned it?

  “Is she well?” Hawk blurted, not bothering to specify to which lady he referred.

  Mr. Grenville lifted dark eyebrows. “You said you saw her. Did she appear unwell?”

  The skin at the back of Hawk’s neck prickled. Perhaps he did know. Grenville knew everything, after all.

  Hawk relinquished all pretense of artifice. “I had not seen her in far too long. I shan’t beg for details. Just tell me she’s been well.”

  Mr. Grenville tilted his head and considered him in silence.

  “Please. Faith is a mystery. Her name has never graced the scandal sheets, nor has it been called with any of the banns.” Hawk set his jaw in frustration. “I know nothing. It is torture. Surely there must be something you can tell me.”

  A sympathetic smile curved the corners of Grenville’s lips. “I can tell you are very much interested in personal details. You mention scandal, wedding banns, whether she has found happiness. I am sorry that finding yourself so distant from her life tortures you. Yet it is not my place to amend that gap, but yours. I cannot help.”

  “You could,” Hawk muttered under his breath. Very well. He did not deserve Faith then or now, which meant he likewise did not deserve to be privy to her life. No matter how he wished otherwise.

  “Are you happy?” Mr. Grenville asked, surprising Hawk with the question.

  Happy? The weight of his many responsibilities had weighed on Hawk’s shoulders for over one third of his life.

  No, he was not happy. When he was younger, he had often wished he could be a headmaster or street sweeper or pie maker. Anything at all where his life and his fortune was under his control.

  But he could not and he was not. He was a marquess with a title he could not be rid of by any means other than death. The same for his debts, and the lands entitled to him by law, unable to be sold or bartered or used as leverage to gain investments that might actually lift them out of the pit his father had dug for their family.

  “It isn’t my duty to be happy,” Hawk said wryly, rather than give a direct answer.

  “The curse of the aristocracy.” Mr. Grenville inclined his head in commiseration. “And yet without such rules, I would have no clients.”

  True. Scandal was his specialty. Whether plots were being devised above board or below, Mr. Grenville was always in the thick of it. Protecting those who could afford his protection. Unmasking those who deserved to be unmasked.

  “Am I keeping you from a job right now?” Hawk asked.

  “This is the job.” Mr. Grenville swept his hand in the direction of the endless store windows. “You don’t happen to know the
identity of the penny caricaturist poking such dreadful fun at the upper classes, do you?”

  “If I could draw, it would probably be me,” Hawk said with a sardonic grin.

  His mother would not appreciate the jest. Nor would the many peers whose faces had graced the anonymous sketches sweeping London by storm.

  Caricatures had long been a part of town entertainment. Mocking the Prince Regent, pointing out genteel hypocrisy, providing commentary on the recent war with Napoleon Bonaparte. But of course Hawk knew to which caricatures Mr. Grenville referred.

  A new artist had risen up out of nowhere, an illegible signature scrawled amongst the inked lines.

  This artist provided more than idle commentary. He outed peccadilloes, mocked his betters, submitted illustrated scandals to gleeful gossip columns. The Cloven Hoof still boasted copies of the Lord of Pleasure sequence, which had recently upended the life of one of their friends.

  Indeed, Hawk’s mother’s greatest fear was her face appearing in one of Betelgeuse’s caricatures. Or Hawk’s.

  Of course a man like Mr. Grenville would want the name of the villain behind so much havoc. The only surprise to Hawk was that the secret-keeper did not already have it.

  “I’m afraid I don’t get out enough to be privy to any scandals,” Hawk admitted. “The only reason my dancing slippers are in serviceable condition is because I haven’t used them in years.”

  “Mmm, I see.” Mr. Grenville raised his brows. “You are lovesick, and you are bored. A precarious combination.”

  “What?” Hawk stammered. “No, I—”

  “There may be a solution,” Mr. Grenville continued, his eyes alight with mischief. “As it happens, I occasionally serve as substitute dancing-master at my sister’s boarding school when the usual dancing-master cannot be present. I am expected tonight, in fact.”

  Hawk frowned. “What have your dancing lessons to do with me?”

  “I cannot imagine. All I know is that it would be dreadful if I were to not keep the appointment. There would be no one to take my place. And I feel the ague coming on.” Mr. Grenville gave a laughably delicate cough into a pristine riding glove. “But I suppose beggars cannot be choosers when it comes to volunteer dance instructors. If some other gentleman were to be present at around six o’clock this evening, Dahlia—and, perhaps, her business partner—might find such a circumstance serendipitous. You did say your dancing slippers were in serviceable condition, did you not?”